Zombie Drabble #306 “Shelter”

The dumpster had been a temporary hiding place, a safe spot to rest, regain her strength. When the bomb went off it had rung like a bell.

Her mind had raced: how well protected from the radiation was she? Should she stuff torn bits of cardboard into the cracks to keep out the toxic smoke? What if the buildings around her caught fire? When none of her immediate fears realized, she allowed herself to relax and sleep.

Six days later it rained hard. Would the fallout have been washed away? It didn’t matter: she was out of scrounged snack food.

Fantasy Drabble #208 “Haunted”

Dear Emma,

I don’t know where to begin. The house is yours if you want it, though I certainly understand if you don’t. I should have been more honest with you from the beginning.

It would be a good home for the baby to grow up in; I grew up there, and it was a wonderful childhood. I was never afraid or anything like that. None of them would ever harm the baby any more than they would have harmed me. And if it’s that big a deal for you, just keep him out of the attic and the basement.

Fantasy Drabble #207 “In Sheep’s Clothing”

They drove in silence, two hours, three; he was still angry. Eventually, after seeing a sign for a rest stop, she said, “Feel like stopping yet?”

“Not really.”

She watched another sign for the rest stop go by. “I need to go.”

He sighed. “All right.” He faded down the offramp and pulled into a parking space near the Welcome Center.

She got out, breathed in the fresh air. Immediately she knew how many people were there, what sort of diet they kept, how many were menstruating.

He called testily out the car window. “Low profile.”

She breathed again. “Sure.”

SF Drabble #278 “Artifact”

Hand over hand, take your time, breathe regular. Across the hull to the airlock, into the stale old darkness beyond. Nothing to worry about: there’s nothing here, nothing alive, not after all this time. There won’t be spider webs. There won’t even be dust.

Think positive. Be professional. Here she is, one of the early ones, probably #6.  No way to tell from the outside: they didn’t paint hull numbers on them after the first three or four. Assembly-line diaspora: no formal ceremonies, no breaking the champagne bottle across the bow. They were too busy, too desperate for that nonsense.

The Monster In My Pocket

We all know about it, you hear about it as a kid, you see the headlines, you hear about so-and-so’s cousin or uncle or whatever. You tell yourself it’ll never happen to you, it’s only after other people, it’ll give you a pass. It lurks in alleys you’ll never turn down, it hides in rooms you’ll never enter. This is before you know that it’s everywhere, that it lies in the tall grasses around the makeup chair and the soundstage and the after party.

There’s a phial in my jacket right now as I’m writing this. Powder, not rock. Uncut.

Zombie Drabble #305 “Glow”


“Where? Oh, got ‘em.”

He snorted. “Take the goddamn infrared goggles off; they’re dead, they don’t give off heat.”

I objected, “The heads do. Sometimes the stomach, too”


“Here, try it.” I slipped the headset off and handed it to him. “Whatever’s going on in the brains gives off heat. Plus, if they’ve eaten, the flesh in their bellies gives off heat as the virus breaks it down.”

“Oh, shit, you’re right. Hey Brooks, you’ve gotta see this—”

“I’ve seen it. Can we shoot them now, or do you two wanna yammer on about zombie chemistry some more?”

Fantasy Drabble #206 “One Good Turn”

We found her on the beach, tangled in fishing net, already half dead from desiccation. I had a pocket knife, as it happens, and began cutting her loose while Elise brought handfuls of water to splash on her.

She was too weak to struggle, but clearly did not trust our intent. I wondered what magic she could have wielded against us had she been less desperate; I tried not to look directly at her breasts.

When we had her free of the netting, we pulled her down the wet sand, through the surf, and into deep water where she belonged.